Isabella
by Circe Rose
Summary: ...It is not proper that I write of Scotland's hero. And yet, I know of no other way to tell his, and my story... Told in flashback, this is the story of Isabella, wife of Edward II, and her first and only true love.
1. Chapter 1

I wrote most of this for an assignment dealing with historical fiction in my writer's craft class, but it could be classified as a fanfic, as I was inspired greatly by Mel Gibson's "Braveheart". This story however, does have a lot of true historical facts in it. It's basically complete, and just needs to be loaded up to but I'd appreciate some suggestions as I think a few things could be changed or elaborated upon. Please drop me a line or two in a review :)

**Chapter 1**

_Today will be remembered. A hundred years from now, and for centuries after, this day will be remembered. Men will speak of it over their ale and women will tell their children. Bards will sing of the great William Wallace - a barbarian, a commoner, a strategist - a hero. Edward, King of England, has triumphed today over the most daring and audacious Scottish rebel the Kingdom has ever seen. This day, 23rd August, in the year of our Lord 1305, England rejoices at the execution of William Wallace, but I weep with Scotland._

- - -

"Milady?" The princess' maid entered a small, sparsely furnished room and addressed the figure kneeling quietly at a preire dieu. The figure's cloak and richly embroidered gown presented her as the wife of Edward II, Princess of Wales, and future Queen of England. She inclined her head to show she was listening.

"He is dead, milady." The maid laid a consolatory hand on the woman's shoulder, speaking words of comfort when she felt the princess' tears fall onto her fingers.

The princess Isabella sniffed quietly, placing her hands over her eyes. "And the King?"

"He has already planned a banquet and - and he expects that you will attend." The maid's expression clearly showed her distaste for the King. "But," she added, "some say that he should not leave his bed, as his health declines. They think that he may not live for very long." The maid's voice trembled slightly, betraying her hope that the King would indeed die, and soon.

"Nicolette," the princess reprimanded her maid softly. "You must not look for anyone's death, regardless of how they have lived their life."

Nicolette's eyes widened, and she stared at her mistress with disbelief etched into her face. How could the princess say this when the King's order to execute the rebel Scot had just been carried out? He had murdered the princess' only love, and still she looked for the good in him.

"Milady, I do no underst -"

The princess sighed heavily, wiping at her tears as she turned to face her maid. "If you rejoice in the king's illness, you will - that will make you no less barbaric than him. He - he should not have k-killed Wallace..." Isabella's voice trailed away as she realized what her words meant. As if saying that William was dead made it final, irreversible. Unbidden, an image came to her mind depicting the head of the only man who had loved her being paraded on a spike through the streets of London, as the King had done with every traitor. A strangled cry escaped her lips and she sank to her knees on the stone floor. Nicolette quickly knelt and held her mistress, speaking softly in their native French tongue, while Isabella sobbed in anguish.

_- - -_

_It is not proper that I write of Scotland's hero_ _- indeed, it is not proper that I write at all. And yet, I know of no other way to tell his - and my - story to those who will care to read it. I write in French so that my husband, the Prince of Wales, will not be able to understand my writings. He believes that I translate the Bible. Let him - it has been long since I have felt any regard for his feelings, just as he has never considered my own. From the day we met, he has disdained me, and not even attempted to create a facade of affection. The only love shown to me was from a rebel and an enemy. And so I write._

- - -

"'Isabella the Fair'" whispered the King to his handsome young son. "The name is apt, is it not?"

The younger Edward, standing at his father's side, regarded his future wife as she entered the cathedral of Boulogne with her entourage. Her father, King Philip of France, had certainly made sure that his daughter's entrance would be dramatic and splendid. Her hair was braided and entwined artfully around a silver headpiece, and a sheer white veil draped from the crown of her head to cover her face and bare throat. The gown of blue and gold she wore was nothing short of dazzling.

Edward looked back to his father, frowning slightly. "How old is she, then?"

"Thirteen, and ripe for marriage. I will _not_ hear complaints, boy. You know the importance of this wedding." The king smiled appreciatively toward the French party, covering the carefully contained anger of his words to his son.

Edward fumed inwardly. He did not want this marriage. He wanted none of the alliances and securities his father had attained, and none of the damned women that came along with them. Glancing over his shoulder to the back of the church, he caught the gaze of a young man who stood with the English company. The young man winked and smiled encouragingly, but before Edward could return a similar gesture, he was conscious of his father's elbow digging into his ribs.

"This is your wedding boy! Act like a bloody groom!" Shoving his son forward, the King watched as Edward joined his young bride at the altar on a raised dias. The boy intoned the Latin words required of a groom, and listened as the French princess responded. Edward looked forlornly over his shoulder once, and then again during the Bishop's matrimonial speech, seeking the eyes of the young man in the back. The King glared at his son. The boy didn't appreciate the alliance this would tie between England and France! In time, the King would set his sights on ruling all of Gascony, and expanding his empire throughout Normandy. _"But this will not be possible if my imbecile of a son cannot maintain this marriage!" _he thought sourly, watching his son's eyes seek those of the young man again.

The night of the marriage saw much celebration, and the wine flowed so freely that none seemed to notice the absence of the bride - or the fact that Edward did not seem at all inclined to leave the rowdy group of Englishmen he had stationed himself with. The only unusual moment was a brief and irritated conversation Edward had with his wife's maid, before snapping at her to leave him.

- - -

"My lady, he bids me to tell you that he cannot see you tonight." Nicolette bit her lip and watched the newly wed Princess Isabella receive her news. The princess' face twisted into a frown of confusion, and she ducked her head.

"Milady?"

Isabella regarded her maid calmly, fighting back tears that her husband could be this inconsiderate.

"Did he say why? Is he - is he upset, perhaps?"

Nicolette knelt at the princess' knee and took her hand.

"No milady, not upset. He is, I think...there are rumours, you see..." The young woman's voice trailed off and she looked unhappily up at her mistress.

"Nicolette, you are my closest friend," Isabella said quietly. "Do not think that youspare my feelings by not telling me of these rumours."

"Yes milady, but -"

"No, Nicolette. Tell me. I must know more of this man that I am to spend my life with." The princess choked on her words, realizing the horrible finality of them.

Nicolette patted her hand reassuringly and began. "There have been whisperings among the King's entourage - I know, because Genevieve was flirting with some of their soldiers last night - that they had never seen Prince Edward with a woman. They...they say that he will be too occupied warming the bed of his companions then to see to his own wife."

Nicolette glanced at Isabella, but looked away when her mistress tried to hide her tears.

"Has he not -" Nicolette bit her lip again, afraid that her question might upset the princess more. However, Isabella squeezed her hand gently, whispering for her maid to go on.

"Has your husband not spoken to you of this? Has he said nothing?"

Isabella gave a tiny, humourless laugh. "No, Nicolette. I have barely spent time with him, and we have not had the chance to speak alone." She paused, sniffing into her handkerchief. "And it seems we shall not ever speak alone now!" She let her tears fall this time, leaning into Nicolette's consoling embrace. The two sat on the royal marriage bed in this manner, maid comforting mistress. Finally, Isabella looked up into her friend's face.

"Nicolette - what am I to do?"


	2. Chapter 2

I suppose it wouldbe proper to apologize for my tardy update - tardy being a sad understatement. My regrets - I am selfish and should be slapped. But don't let that stop you from reading chapter two :) Drop a line or two after you're finished, if you please.

* * *

Philip of France had endowed his child richly, and she left France on the arm of Edward the younger adorned with wealth befitting of an empress. In a favourable state of mind, Philip had also gifted his new son-in-law with several expensive rings and chains of gold. 

Watching their leaders arrive in Dover on chilly February waves, the English greeted their new princess warmly and with much hope. She was young and beautiful, and her womb would determine the future of England.

They rejoiced again in London, when the French princess received her official coronation as Princess of Wales, and future Queen of England. All partook in comradery with Prince Edward, but none laughed as merrily or looked as happy drinking with the prince as the young man who had stood at the back of the Boulogne cathedral. In a forced effort to include her in his activities, Edward introduced his new wife to the young man, who was called Piers de Gaveston.

Princess Isabella did not care for the young man with his rich clothes and sparkling eyes which met and lingered over-long with her husband's. It was not until much later when she was settled in her new apartments at the King's castle that she heard complaints against de Gaveston. "The Favourite" he was called, and it was widely known that the prince lavished money and gifts upon the young man. To the irritation of many, a generous amount of the royal coffers had been emptied into the young man's pocket by the prince. More then once, Isabella noticed the jewelry that her father had given to Edward adorning de Gavston.

- - -

_ Life in London was uneventful. Nicolette was my one comfort and companion. Edward had seen it fit to dismiss the small French court I had brought across the Channel with me, but I did not complain. I thought that perhaps if I remained the docile and dutiful wife that my husband would adapt to his role in our marriage. However, he did not. He continued to gallivant childishly with his companions, disregarding his father the King's attempts to mold him into a leader. I was questioned many times on the whereabouts of Edward, who would be hunting or doing some such frivolous activity while the King met with his counsels and managed the country. Many times, my husband sent me in his stead to sit in on these councils. It is thus that I learned far more then a woman of my position is expected to know. I learned of the King's tight reign over the nobles - those of England and Scotland - and the ruthless manner in which he dealt with uncompromising lords. I understood why my father had said to keep one's friends close, but to keep their enemies closer. It is at one such counsel that I became aware of the growing contempt in Scotland for the English King, and the rebel Scot, William Wallace._

- - -

The field was trampled and muddy from the endless parade and charge of horses across it. At one end stood an impressive wooden structure draped with colourful banners and streamers depicting the standards of English knights and their lords. Reclining comfortably in cushioned seats was the royal party, lazily observing the clashing of armored men and their lances. Thomas Lancaster, hereditary high steward of England and the King's nephew, roared his approval to the victorious knights from his seat on the King's right. Princess Isabella winced at his coarse conduct, wondering how this man with such a dim-witted character managed five earldoms, including the powerful Lancaster, Derby, and Liecester. The princess did not enjoy the King's jousting tournaments, having always found the violent colliding of steel and wood disturbing. Her maid Nicolette however used the contests as an opportunity to flirt with the soldiers, and easily had them boasting that they would win the tournaments for her.

Isabella rose from her seat as her husband rode a coal-black charger onto the field, greeted by riotous shouts from the nobles and peasants alike. He cantered his horse around the perimeter, while the princess waited for him to reign in before the royal party.

"My lords, milady," he said carelessly, patting his horse's neck.

"Whom do you face today, son?" The King did not rise, but merely regarded Edward languidly from his seat.

"Warwick and le Depenser, sir. Easy matches!" he bragged. His cousin Lancaster roared again from the King's right.

"You think so, Ed? Don't try too hard boy, I've got gold resting on Warwick's head!"

He slapped his knee, clearly of the opinion that his bet would pay off well.

Isabella stepped forward shyly, holding a silk handkerchief between the tips of her middle and index fingers. "I pray you accept this token, my lord. Of course, you will win, but my wishes nonetheless." She arranged her features into the coy expression she had seen English ladies wear when toying with their knights.

Edward looked at his wife, her arm outstretched, the cloth dangling from her hand. His face twisted into a grimace, and he seemed unable to speak. His reluctance to take the token was obvious, but he was spared the embarrassment of answering when the Earl of Warwick hailed him from across the field. He kicked his horse away, leaving the princess frozen with the handkerchief still between her fingers.

Mortified, Isabella turned from the field. "If you will excuse me, milord," she mumbled in the King's general direction before hastily leaving the stand. Nicolette followed, leaving her handful of eager young men crestfallen.

* * *

Thoughts? Ideas? Comments of a pleasent nature? Please review. 


	3. Chapter 3

My lovely readers,  
Again - I cannot apologize enough for my horrible habits in updating. But exams are finished, and I have a spot in university! So I have more time now, for a little while.I hope...Anways, chapter three - we left pouvre Isabella publicly shamed before her father-in-law and his court at the joust. Do read on.

* * *

"The King looked furious." Nicolette and Isabella sat quietly in the corner of the King's council room, holding their embroidery and occasionally glancing up to watch the prince and his companions engage in mock sword fights.

"Furious because I left?" Isabella inquired of her maid. "Or because of Edward?"

"Because of your husband, I am sure. How dared the prince of England publicly humiliate his own wife!" The princess was comforted by Nicolette's indignation on her behalf. That morning's tournament and its events would not escape the gossip of the court. She looked up to see Edward duck the wooden sword of Piers de Gaveston, and watched the two embrace easily, laughing no doubt at the prince's apparent prowess. Isabella's eyes flickered to a movement in the doorway and saw the King standing askance, surveying the room.

"You did not come to see me after the tournament." He glared at the prince, whose practice sword hung limply from his hand. Glancing at the handful of soldiers and a few of the prince's comrades on one side of the room, he ordered them out. The princess and Nicolette remained inconspicuously in the corner, half concealed by shadow. The King advanced on his son.

"When I issue a command, I expect it to be followed." He kicked the wooden sword out of Edward's hand and gripped the prince's shoulder.

"I was meaning to - I was about to -" stammered the prince, flinching from his father's iron hold.

"Immediately. You would be flayed in the courtyard if you were a soldier. Consider yourself warned." The King loosened his grip and made to turn away, before suddenly swinging his gauntlet-clad arm at Edward's head. The prince crumpled, whimpering from the blow. A ring fell from a small pouch at his waist and clattered onto the stone floor. Apparently unaware of his son's sniveling, the King bent to pick it up. He examined it and then flung the ring away as though it were a hot coal. "Fool!" he raged at his son. "You would not accept a handkerchief from your _wife,_ and yet you carry the token of that _filth_, that bloody de Gaveston, on your person!"

The King stared down authoritatively, inwardly ashamed, as he had always been, that this quivering child was his son.

"You are the next King of England, boy. It's time you were tested." He strode slowly away, but Edward did not stand. "I leave next week to, ah - negotiate - with Philip in France." The King inclined his head briefly in Isabella's direction. The princess jumped, startled by his acknowledgment in this awkward situation. Oblivious, the King continued.

"You must remain here and deal with the Scottish rebellion that his arisen." He turned back to his son. "Get up, boy!" he barked, furiously approaching the prince. Dragging Edward to his feet, he spoke through clenched teeth. "You will quell this disturbance and keep northern England fortified. Do you understand? And make sure that Wallace is killed." Turning to leave, the King was stopped by his son's stammer.

"Wa-Wallace?"

Edward I turned, his face twisted in a disdainful sneer. "Ah, of course...you were not present at our last military counsel. Or the one before that." The King laughed mockingly. "Your wife knows more about the affairs of this country then you do, my son. A woman!" He threw his head back, but his laugh of derision became a chocking cough.

"Sir?" Edward moved forward uncertainly, touching his father's arm.

"Get off!" Shoving his son roughly away, the King continued, his breathing laboured. "Wallace leads the Scots, sacking towns and villages and killing the English garrisons. His tactics are erratic, no discipline. Have him killed. He is a commoner - even you should not have that much difficulty killing a peasant."

* * *

_The King's absence from England did not encourage his son to take on the role of a leader. It merely gave Edward more freedom to indulge in parties,_ _luxurious clothes, and extravagant entertainment. Arymer de Valance, the leader of England's army, attempted to engage my husband in plans for attack and quelling the rebellion. He was met with disdain however, as Edward chose hunting or archery practice over fulfilling the order his father had given to him. I attended even more meetings and discussions in my husband's stead then usual, and therefore learned of all that Wallace did. What had started with the defeat of one garrison multiplied into the sacking of major English holdings in southern Scotland. Hamilton finally sent an army north, documented with a hurried signature from my husband. Of course, my information did not come exclusively from the war councils. Nicolette always had gossip to share, and sometimes even a few genuine slivers of information._

* * *

Edward and Piers walked ahead of the princess and her maid, admiring each other in yet another set of expensive clothing that Edward had had tailored for them. They nattered like two old women, about topics which were most unbefitting for a prince of England. Lagging behind, Isabella told her maid of yet another council she had come from, and during which de Valence had decided to station the army in York, on the tip of the English-Scottish border. Nicolette surprised the princess by nodding her head and elaborating on this information. 

"But how do you know? You were not at the council!"

Nicolette giggled in delight, savouring the surprise on Isabella's face. "No," she agreed. "But last night, I snuck away with Roger Whitmore, one of de Valence's lieutenants. I was quite aggravated, listening to all his war-talk and _pretending _to be interested...but in the end, I suppose it was worth it."

Isabella regarded her maid and best friend in astonishment. "Worth it? Perhaps I should not ask!"

Nicolette looked side-long at the princess. "Perhaps not," she said mischievously, "but I can assure you, he kisses almost as well as a Frenchman!"

Isabella perched on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard and smiled nostalgically. "You will not find the romance of France in this country, Nicolette, regardless of how hard you look." She glanced at her friend, and in a would-be stern voice admonished, "And you certainly will not find it among the King's soldiers, you silly girl!"

Unfazed, Nicolette sat beside the princess. "Perhaps not, but passion is not restricted only to France." In answer to her mistress' questioning look, Nicolette elaborated. "The man who leads the Scottish has more passion for his cause then any I have ever heard of." The princess sighed.

"I have heard nothing of passion. He is merely a barbarian, sacking towns and murdering men. What passion is there in that?"

"Well, I met one of the scullery maids, Nessa, after I had parted with Roger. She let me in through the servant's quarters, and told me of what she had heard of Wallace. She's Scottish herself."

Isabella seemed unconvinced. "And so?"

"Well," Nicolette continued, taking the princess' hands in her own, "Wallace does not fight for just freedom. He is avenging a lover!" At Isabella's surprised gasp, Nicolette continued in excitement.

"He was involved in a disturbance of some sort, Nessa did not know what it was. So, the English sheriff of his village, Lanark, took Wallace's woman and killed her to lure Wallace to fight. But when he did, half the town stood behind him, and they overpowered the English guard! Nessa said that one or two of the men escaped, and called for help from a nearby garrison. They attacked Wallace at the burial of his lover, and again he fought and defeated them!" Nicolette's eyes were bright with the thrill of her story, and she finished in an animated voice. "He finally carried her body to a secret resting place, and has been routing English soldiers ever since! Now how can you say that this man has no passion? I suppose he has so many followers because they believe that he fights merely for his freedom and their own from the English King. But I believe that he is driven by his love for the woman they killed!"

Isabella smiled at her friend's story, and sighed wistfully. "I was wrong, then. I cannot think of a better reason for a man to fight."

"For freedom or love?" Nicolette asked curiously.

"Both, I suppose...but for love mostly. What I would not give..." The princess sighed again, thinking of her longing to be loved - truly loved - by a man with passion like that of William Wallace.

* * *

A little longer, yes? I hope to follow this with a scene starring our favourite Scottish rebel, so I shall sit and muse for a short while. Please reveiw, comments from readers can be such good inspiration! Thank you m'dears. 


	4. Chapter 4

Ok…its here. I took way long updating this because I didn't want to take any chance of messing this chapter up. Please review when you've read it – I really do appreciate the encouragement, it helps! And many thanks to those who've been following this story.

* * *

The crackling of flames and hiss of roasting meat was complimented by the warm, spicy aroma of cooking rabbit and venison. A group of six men sat around a small fire, taking it in turns to rotate the spit. The noises that accompanied the small rebel army – sharpening weapons, practice combat, muffled shouts of rowdy laughter – were masked by one ofthenearby waterfalls of Lanark. Between mouthfuls, the six men discussed their next moves and the status of Longshanks' army. As the evening wore on and small groups of men with dice and flutes began to play, the initial group of six ebbed until only the rebel leader and his best friend remained.

"Hamish, man! Have ye heard a word I've been sayin'?" The burly red-headed Scot started out of his reverie to see William's hand waving in front of his face.

"Er, sorry. We should…uh, ye were sayin'…" He shifted uncomfortably under his friend's scrutiny, avoiding the stern look of his leader.

"I was talking about tactics man," William began, even as Hamish's eyes wandered back to the young woman he had been riveted on for the last half hour. Her hair fell in copper waves around a pretty face, and her cooking was praised by every man who'd tasted it. Many of the men had brought along their women, be they wives, sisters, or daughters, and not a few had been on receiving end of Hamish's roving eyes – and hands.

"Would make a man happy, that one," he muttered to himself, eyeing her rare, voluptuous figure as she bent over a cooking fire. William sighed.

"Off wi' ye then."

"Eh?"

"Off wi' ye, to the dice or the girl. We'll no be getting anything else decided tonight." Hamish grinned sheepishly, and, lumbering to his feet, made for the direction of the young woman. A thought occurred to him though, and he half turned, an eyebrow cocked.

"Will ye come yerself then?"

William shook his head in a negative, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No. I've a mind to do some praying."

"Ah." Looking properly abashed, Hamish changed direction and shouldered his way instead toward the group of laughing men around another small fire.

Finding himself alone with the remnants of his own fire, William placed his elbows on his knees and leaned toward the heat. Between the disruptions of crude jokes, sidelong glances at serving girls, and new recruits, it was a tough go of deciding the army's next move. And as much as he would like to revel with the men, he couldn't neglect his tumultuous thoughts.

That morning had risen on a torched hamlet outside of Lanark and the dead bodies of some twenty five English soldiers. Having been alerted by a shepherding lad, William had not needed many men. A handful of highlanders had effectively taken care of the small English task force, but had not been able to save the hamlet or its few families.

Passing a work-roughened hand over his weathered visage, William sighed. This was becoming an unavoidable problem. The secrecy of his whereabouts depended greatly on the silence and cooperation of the local Scots. It was impossible to move through the land without being noticed, at the very least, by a girl fetching water, or a young boy tending sheep. The English were not blind, either. They reckoned that their best chance of nipping the rebellion in the bud was to demand the location of Wallace's army from the locals, under threat of death. More often then not, it didn't matter if their questions were answered.

William Wallace did not want bloodshed. Contrary to popular stories, he did not crave the gruesome death of the English, nor did he wish ill on any other country. He had said it a hundred times over – he wanted nothing more then freedom. Staring into the fire, William thought of the good men who had died for this very cause. Their faces were there, in the flames, their death-dulled eyes locked with his own bottomless blue gaze, beseeching him.

* * *

"_What are they doing uncle?"_

_ Argyll Wallace looked down at his young nephew. The boy's clothes were shabby, his hair was sticking up absurdly at the crown of his head, and his face was in a most regrettable state of neglect. His appearance was that of a blithe young boy who'd been traipsing around the hills, enjoying the freedom of being left to his own devices in the absence of authority. But the white tracks in the grime on William's face belied the rest of his carefree appearance. Now, instead of the merry stance in which a child his age was always be found, he stood straight, with his head held high, like a man. Despite the strong stance of the proud little figure however, Argyll watched a new tear slide down the dirty face, followed by a faintly muffled sniff. He placed a calloused hand on his nephew's shoulder, and let it rest there._

_ "Saying goodbye, in their own way," he stated simply. The heat of the fire warmed both nephew and uncle against the chill of an approaching storm, whileits heralding thunder mingled with the mournful yet fiercely proud strains of forbidden Scottish pipes. An onlooker would have wept at the music alone, but the scene was just as powerful. A sure blaze, serving as a symbolic pyre, was ringed with torch-bearing sentries, standing tall and sure to pay their last respects. The fire gave light to the soul of the deceased to find its way to what lay ahead, while the surrounding men kept demon sassanachs from haunting the final steps of the fallen. The pipes defied the authority of those who would steal freedom from these men, and drew tears from the depths of their grieving hearts. _

_ Another small sniffle drew Argyll's attention to the tear-stained face of his nephew. The flames of the fire leapt, reflected in the brimming eyes of the boy. Argyll squeezed his nephew's shoulder, saying without words that it was alright – even a man must weep. Tears would not shame him before the pyre of his father._

_ William shook his head, a small but firm negative, and straightened his shoulders. He was a man now, and had been left to carry on his father's beliefs. The knowledge of his new responsibility grew in the lad, and his eyes no longer brimmed with tears, but with a mounting determination. As if of its own volition, one arm reached for his uncle's sword. Grasping the hilt in his grubby fists, he struggled to hold the blade steady. As his eyes traveled up the length of tempered steel, William knew that he held the weight of his future and freedom in his hands._

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